


Pianissimo

by Kasuchi



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Music, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-10
Updated: 2006-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/pseuds/Kasuchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>La vida es aspirar, respirar, y expirar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pianissimo

**Author's Note:**

> For **fated_addiction** , with lots of love. *hugs*

She sits at his desk every now and again. When he's off stalking Cuddy for approval or hounding Wilson for cash, she quietly settles in his chair. Sometimes she uses his computer if Chase or Foreman occupies hers. (It's really theirs, but she uses it the most.) Other times, she waits for him so she can badger him; it always catches him off guard to see her in his chair, and she wonders what it is about the image that makes him pause for a half second.

Unless she's imagining it - that's not unlikely, either.

His desk, she notes, is ever dynamic. Knick-knacks and trinkets come and go; the magic eight ball almost seems to appear and disappear at will. The giant red tennis ball shifts across the office; the boys, she muses with a smile, love it to pieces. Books and medical journals and a ream and a half of papers are most prevalent. So when she finds it clean - or, at least, clearer than normal - she is a little awed.

She spins once in the chair. It's a simple pleasure, but it feels nice to have the world thrown off-balance for just a minute. She knows why people get dizzy; chemical imbalances in the brain, fluid in the ear, blood rushes and heat exhaustion. But for a moment, she can pretend she's not a doctor.

She stops herself with a hand and sweeps across the glass surface. It looks wrong, somehow. It always has, even when it was piled high with papers and books littered every surface; something integral was and is missing, and she can't place her finger on it.

"Up," comes a sharp voice and her head tilts up to catch his gaze.

"House."

"Up. You're in my chair. Get up."

She rolls her eyes and rises. "It's just a desk."

"It's _mine_ ," he insists and settles himself, stretching his leg out as far as he can. "It's okay, baby. Daddy's here."

She scoffs and walks away.

&&&

She hears the hammering noise all the way from the elevator, marked by intermittent cursing and clatter. Through the door she can see him hammering a nail into the wall. Her brow furrows and she pushes the glass door in.

"What are you doing?"

"Hammering in a nail."

"I see that." She sets her purse on the conference room table, tosses her jacket over the back of a chair. They land neatly, and it almost looks picturesque; she's almost proud. "Why?"

"So I can do this." He straightens and limps to the desk; there's a frame lying face-down on the surface, atop misshapen piles of papers and books and file folders. He lifts it with effortless grace and pivots on his left heel cleanly. She's mildly impressed, though nothing but curiosity flashes across her features.

"Hang a picture?" There aren't many frames in the hospital, and she doubts there has ever been framed anythings in House’s office so long as his name was painted on the door. He hobbles forward and gently hangs the modest frame on the nail, the long, red cord stretching taut and triangular across. He steps back and adjusts it until it's straight enough to his eye, then backs away, cane once again in hand.

"Not just any picture - _La fuente necrofílica fluyendo de un piano de cola_." He frowned, as if the phrase tasted off on his tongue.

"House? I haven't taken Spanish since high school."

"Really? Me neither." He shot her a sardonic look. "It's Dali. _Necrophilic Fountain Flowing from a Grand Piano_."

"Oh." She studies the painting once more, tracing her eyes over the lines and curves. The piano seems to stretch out into forever, and there are cracks along the closest edge. The water flows into a pool in the shape of a piano, and the sheet music is blank. She can feel his eyes on her and the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"Why is it here?" She licks her lips and turns to him.

He looks almost chagrined. "Wilson made me get rid of it," he grumbles and stalks off. "I'm going to go mock Chase." The door sighs shut and she shakes her head and makes her way behind his desk.

She commandeers his chair and stares at the print until she goes cross-eyed.

&&&

The sodium lights cast the parking garage in hues of jaundiced yellow, and stark shadows form against the cement walls. She shivers and listens to the click of her heels against the concrete and pulls her coat closer to her. She passes under the light and feels a whisper of a caress as the light slides across her, like eyes roving her figure.

He is standing by her car.

She curses inwardly, but only allows a glare to escape her. "Get away from my car." Her voice is sharp and yet so tired. She is sick of this game, of this box step they're stuck in.

"Not until you stop this petty grudge you're holding." He fingers his cane, letting it fall through graceful fingers to tap against the cold gray surface.

"Petty?" She's on the edge of shouting and she's tempted to give in. She so rarely indulges herself. "You are _unbelievable_." She taps her foot and shifts her weight. She's wearing her killer heels, the ones that leave her sore and aching the next day. She’s known men who sleep with women just for wearing shoes like these. It gives her small satisfaction.

"Oh, most petty," he murmurs lowly, taking a step and three toward her. His eyes are black in the shadows of his face and it's chilling. "You're mad at me because I didn't give you one day off? Take it when we don't have a patient on the board." He is a snake, hissing and spitting venom, and her blood boils in her veins as she hears the mockery in his voice.

"I asked for one thing, one day." She can feel her nails digging into her palms. She so rarely indulges herself; so, she does. "One. Once! Why can't you give that much to me?"

"Why do you want it so badly?"

"Why can't you let me have my grief in peace?" Her eyes glitter amber in the eerie light and it makes her look dangerous.

"Why should I?" He's close, too close, and his voice is too, too low and everything is closing in and--

"Because I left you and Stacy alone." The air shatters and she swears if she listens she can hear the pieces clatter to the ground. Neatly, she sidesteps him and makes it into her car. She half expects him to rap on her window, but the sound never comes and she drives off with her shoes on the passenger seat and the roar of rushing water in her ears.

&&&

She pours herself a glass of wine and watches how the lights play in the liquid, the slow flicker of the candle dances in the red depths of the wine. She swirls the glass and swirls the wine on her tongue and swallows, and the light turns behind her eyes.

There is a knock on her door. She pads over to the door and runs a hand through her hair; it might be Sandy. Wild, unpredictable Sandy, always good to have around when it's just a night alone, drinking wine. She pulls open the door and blinks.

He is there. With a roll of paper.

She sighs, shakes her head, and turns away, silently stepping back to the couch and sitting, her feet curling under her. He is taken aback, but follows her in and shuts the door behind him.

"I," he starts, answering the question in her eyes, the question she shoots at him over the rim of the wineglass. He stops, though, and shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click. Instead, he rests the roll of glossy paper on the table and makes his way out quietly. Her eyes follow the lines of his figure the whole time, and she doesn't stop him.

She hears the engine turn over and then fade away before she sets the glass back down and unrolls the high-gloss paper. She understands, then, Narcissus.

And maybe, just a little, him.

&&&

He walks into the office and breathes. This is his element, this is where he is. His coat gets tossed onto a chair, his bag on the floor beside it; those he will see to later. His chair calls him and he settles into it, running his hands along the frosted surface of his desk. The glass is cool to the touch; he has always loved the mornings.

He reaches to turn on the monitor and pauses. There, beside the phone, is a foreign object - a frame. And in it is a small print, postcard size and petite. He draws it toward him into the light and peers at it intently, the blues of his eyes sharpening in stark relief.

" _The Hallucinogenic Torreador_." Her voice is soft from the doorway. It is early and the others aren't there yet. He's half-tempted to wish they won't come, but he's not sure if he is forgiven or if she is willing to admit a fault. It's always almost with them; perhaps it's both of them. "Appropriate, given that stint you pulled with the migraine medicine a few months ago."

"Har, har." He isn't sure what to say in response; this makes _sense_.

She pauses and tilts her head to the side. "You needed a photo frame." She pushes off the doorjamb and picks up the tennis ball, rolling it from hand to hand. He watches her fingers and her eyes alternately and between them she has him transfixed. "Knick-knacks are nice," she continues, the red felt flowing over her skin, "but people are going to think you're just that alone."

"Aren't I, though?" He is staring intently at the ball, at the way it glides and dips along the curve of her hand.

She catches it and he catches her eye in the same moment. "No. You're not." She tosses it back to him and walks back into the conference room just as Chase stifles a yawn and makes his way in.

 _Allison_ , he thinks, and he can taste the words in his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Necrophilic Fountain Flowing from a Grand Piano](http://oniria.iespana.es/oniria/dali/necrophilic_fountain_flowing_from_a_grand_piano.jpg)  
>  2\. [The Metamorphosis of Narcissus](http://dali.urvas.lt/forviewing/pic29.jpg)  
>  3\. [The Hallucinogenic Torreador](http://www.solarflaredigital.com/HallucinogenicToreador.jpg)  
>  4\. (Just for fun.) [Magritte - The Lovers (2)](http://cinefilosofia.com.sapo.pt/imagens/Magritte%20-%20The%20Lovers.jpg)  
>  5\. "La vida es aspirar, respirar, y expirar." _Life is to aspire, to breathe, and to die._ \- Salvador Dalí  
>  6\. _"I don't do drugs. I am drugs."_ \- Salvador Dali


End file.
